


thanking us for thanking you

by weatheredlaw



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Banter, Developing Relationship, F/M, POV Alternating, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-05-03 14:53:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5295530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/pseuds/weatheredlaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Varric is drunk. Cassandra isn’t. It’s fall, and the leaves are changing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	thanking us for thanking you

**Author's Note:**

> the title is from linda's thanksgiving song in "bob's burgers" because IDK. also i made up a holiday for my own, self-indulgent purposes.

Varric is drunk.

Cassandra isn’t.

It’s fall, and the leaves are changing.

“Seeker.”

“Hmm.”

“Why do we do this?”

“Do what, Varric?”

He sighs, glancing into the bottle for the third time, only to find it empty yet again. “You know.” He waves his hand between them and looks at her. “ _This._ ”

“Ah.”

“Exactly. _Ah._ ” He sighs and somehow, in the next ten seconds, procures another drink. Normally Cassandra might cluck at him for it, or say something snide. She’s fond of their rapport, it keeps men like Dorian from settling too deeply into their world view. But, tonight, she lets the moment pass. If there is a man who deserves to drink his troubles away on this particular evening, it is Varric.

“Would you like us to be different?” she asks. “I assure you, I am no better a friend than I am an opponent.”

“Friend, opponent.” He makes a noise.

“The same to you, then.”

“Hawke always was.”

Cassandra nods. “Hawke was a unique man.”

Varric shrugs. “You’re unique, or whatever. S’no one quite like you, Seeker.” He takes a healthy swig and sets his cup down on the table. The wood trembles. “We’re a pair.”

“You find our dynamic intriguing.”

“Sure. Always have. Sparkler’s not wrong about my books, you know. I mean, in reality, Hawke and Fenris were always just about to pop one another, and then, you know, they'd end up…you know.”

“Kissing.”

“Yeah, sure. _Kissing_. Holding hands. Bickering amicably.”

“We do not bicker _amicably._ ”

“No, we don’t.”

“You are not implying, then, that we are anything like the characters in your books.”

“I’m not,” he says, raising his hands. “But I _can_ see why someone who _isn’t_ either of us might, you know.” He shrugs. “I won’t say there isn’t _something._ ”

“You wouldn’t say that if you’d had half as much to drink as you already have,” she points out.

“Good point.”

“I will do you a favor and _not_ remind you in the morning that you attempted to pinpoint our sexual tension.”

“Ah, so you admit that it’s there.”

Cassandra sighs, standing and prying the cup from his fingers. “I will speak no more on the matter. You should go to bed, Varric. You’ve had a trying afternoon.”

“Oh, well, _sure_ ,” he says. “S’not every _day_ you find out that your brother is dead.”

“No,” she says. “It’s not.”

“I mean, he was dead before this, really. Should have done what Hawke said. Shouldn’t have let Blondie do his thing.” Varric relents to Cassandra’s gentle pull, allowing her to escort him out of the tavern. It is late, later than he usually stays – the bar is empty, and he will be grateful for it in the morning, she's certain. “I left him, Seeker. I left him to be someone else’s problem, and now—”

“You did what you thought was right.”

Varric huffs. “What did I know about what was _right?_ Huh? I lied to you, and that didn’t do me any good. I lied to Hawke, once. Didn’t help. Lied to lots of people, made choices I wasn’t qualified to make. Said things I wasn’t smart enough to really _say._ I’ve been half-assing my credentials since I was eleven. Whatever I _thought_ was right couldn’t have been the best decision.”

“I am glad you are lucid enough to come to this conclusion,” she says, finally finding them outside his room. She opens the door and leads him inside, letting him seat himself on the bed. She watches for a moment as he fumbles with his boots before taking pity on him, kneeling at his feet to undo the buckles.

“Awful suggestive, Seeker, considering how much sexual tension we _don’t_ have.”

Cassandra pauses, looking up at him for only a moment before she says quietly, “I did not say we had no sexual tension.”

“Gotcha.”

“Yes,” she says. “You have certainly caught me. If you remember any of this in the morning, it is doubtful anyone outside this room will believe you.”

He opens his mouth to protest, then shrugs. “That’s a good point.”

“Please do not vomit on yourself,” Cassandra says, reaching for the doorknob. “It would be a pitiful way to lose you.”

“I should wait, then, and die honorably?”

“You should wait and not die at all.”

“You’re always bossing me around,” he mutters, yanking his tunic over his head. “Night, Seeker.”

“Goodnight, Varric.” She glances at him once more, watching him struggle for a moment and finally get under his blanket. It doesn’t take long to hear his soft snores, the kind she recognizes from camping in such close quarters, or the one she knows from the night they slept under the stars in the Graves.

“Rest well,” she murmurs, and closes the door.

 

* * *

 

“ _Varric_ knows what today is,” Maxwell says happily. “Don’t you, my friend?”

“I believe it’s _don’t talk so loud_ day.”

“Yes, you were pretty far gone by the time we left you. Was the Seeker enough company?”

Varric groans, and the Inquisitor chuckles in response.

“I don’t know what today is,” he finally says.

“Today is Thanks Day.”

“Day of Gratitude,” Varric corrects automatically, and drains his glass of juice. “You young people should remember these things properly.”

“As if you’ve the right to speak about propriety,” Maxwell says coolly. “But mother sent along a letter last week reminding me that I’ve a great deal to be thankful for, the first being that I’m alive and she hasn’t come to deal with Corypheus herself.”

“ _Could_ your mother do that?” Dorian asks, settling at the Inquisitor’s side. “I mean, is she _really_ that terrifying?”

“Yes.”

“Maker. I wouldn’t like to meet her, I think. Can I avoid that altogether?”

Varric leans on his elbow. “Afraid of mama Trevelyan, Sparkler?”

“Well, if she’s concerned about corruption, I should think it makes sense.”

Maxwell sighs. “Dorian, if you think you’re the only source of my corruption, then I believe we’ll have to comb through my more recent past a _bit_ more carefully.”

“That does sound – wait. _Why?_ ”

The mage leans forward, eyes narrowed as the Inquisitor laughs, and Varric takes that as his cue to head out and get in some target practice before he’s dragged out on some Maker-forsaken hunting and foraging trip again for the third time that week. Without much thought, his hand goes to the letter tucked into the pocket of his trousers, remembering the words there with far too much clarity for this early in the morning.

_We regret that your brother passed away some days ago. Per facility policies, he was laid to rest on the sanatorium grounds. The bill for the funeral services will be forwarded to you at the end of this quarter._

Terse words, considering. Varric isn’t sure why they hold so much sway over him, or why they make him want to make a sharp left, straight for the tavern instead of the archery shed. What he knows is that he could have done _better_ , and that a left for the tavern means walking fairly close to the Seeker.

He remembers.

To her credit, Cassandra doesn’t look like a woman who sat up in a bar with him until two in the morning, just to make sure he got to bed alright. She looks like she always does – like she burst from crust of this world, outfitted for battle, armed with wit and steel. She is a far better woman than he deserves to be seated near, but he won’t admit that unless he’s actually sitting with her and he’s drank half his body weight in shitty ale.

Perhaps she notices his gaze, or perhaps he’s simply been staring long enough that she looks up and catches him. Her eyes shine with a secret, as if there is something about the night before that only one of them remembers, though Varric is certain he can recall every moment.

Particularly the one image that will not leave him –

Cassandra on her knees, carefully undoing the buckles of his boots, almost _reverently._

He may be imagining that last bit, but it matters, somewhat. It matters that she didn’t yank them from his feet and call him _daft._ It matters that she didn’t leave him in the tavern so that he might wake up there come morning, ashamed and probably having pissed himself. It _matters_ because she came into his room and she admitted that there was something between them.

And he’s fairly certain he isn’t allowed to say it.

“You seem to be faring well,” she says in greeting, and Varric smiles.

“I had a good caretaker.”

“I did what anyone would have done.”

“Mmm, debatable, considering everyone abandoned us, left you there to take care of my sorry ass.”

Cassandra rolls her eyes. “If there were any reasoning behind it at all, it was largely conspiratorial, and also Dorian’s doing.”

“He does have a knack for putting us on the spot.”

“We are cut of the same cloth in that respect. We do well under pressure.”

“Did you…just _admit_ that we have something in common?”

Cassandra shrugs. “I will not say that we don’t. We’re quite similar in many aspects. I am stubborn and unmoving, and you tend to be the same. I have my beliefs that I cleave to, and you have yours. I am quite skilled in battle, as are you. I could spend a great portion of the day listing our commonalities, Varric. But, _you_ are the writer.” She leans against her sword and smiles. “I suspect you may have a better way of describing them.”

He shrugs. “I think those points right there are proof enough.” He’s feeling emboldened by her smile, by the softness in her voice, so he steps a little closer. “I remember what you said, last night.”

“I said a great many things.”

“About us.”

“Yes?”

“About that tension.”

Cassandra raises a brow. “My feelings on the matter have not changed, Varric. I admit that there is something there, but nothing is to be done beyond it.”

“Hey, I’m not _suggesting_ —”

“You are not. But your tone, your body language—” She waves a hand. “I assure you, Varric, the moment I am interested, _you_ will know.”

“Will I, though? I just found out about all this last night. Who’s to say I won’t discover your latent desire in thirty years, when it’s too late to act on it?”

“You think I will be speaking to you in thirty years? That I will speak or write to you even after this is over?”

Varric falters, feels his stomach knot, just a bit, just near the top –

Closest to his heart.

“No,” he admits. “I suppose you won’t.” He looks at the ground, toeing at the dirt and grass. “Be a waste of time, I guess.”

Cassandra looks at him, worrying her bottom lip. “I…suppose I could,” she says finally. “I’m no good at writing,” she admits quickly. “But if you insist upon it, when all this is over.”

“I won’t,” Varric says. “But if you’re fond of the idea I won’t stop you.”

“I am fond of very little,” she says, and turns back to the practice dummy.

Varric chuckles. “Good to know.” He turns to go into the tavern, to pester Bull, really. He’s run out of reasons to start drinking before noon, today. “That reminds me, I suppose. Happy Day of Gratitude, Seeker.”

She pauses, frowning at him. “What is this?”

“Day of Gratitude. It’s a Marcher thing. Apparently they call it Thanks Day, now. You spend the day being thankful for people and things, but it’s mostly an excuse to eat and drink to excess.”

“You do both on a regular basis,” she points out. “The drinking part, at least. I do not see you eat.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Varric says, pressing on. “It’s just a little Marcher thing. Not as important as First Day or Satinalia, but, still.”

“Any excuse to drink too much is a chance for a holiday in your nation,” she says, and takes a swipe at the dummy.

“Hey, don’t blame us for knowing how to live. At least we don’t get married in black.”

Cassandra pauses, turning to look at him. “I am beginning to regret telling you that story.”

“You should always regret telling me a story, Seeker.” Varric grins before heading toward the tavern. “I never forget.”

 

* * *

 

If Cassandra thought she could escape the nonsense of Marcher holidays simply because Varric had gone inside that morning, she has her peace and calm shaken when the Inquisitor practically crawls out of the stonework behind her to insist she tell him all the things she is grateful for.

“What is the point of this?” she asks, trying not to appear as though she is _seething_ , even if she certainly is.

“To remind yourself and those you care about just how _much_ you appreciate them.”

Cassandra frowns. “I take the proper time and effort to insure you do not _die_ in battle. I believe you should feel appreciated enough.”

“Yes, but there’s food that goes with it, and wine.” Maxwell links his arm with hers, prying the sword from her hand. “You do _love_ wine, Cassandra. That much I know.” She sighs, surrendering to his charm. She thinks for a moment that he is rather boyish, and then remembers he isn’t even twenty. Andraste preserve them. “Josephine has agreed to plan a very lovely dinner for everyone.”

“I am sure it was a trial to convince her.”

“A fair point. I want _you_ to do me a favor, though.”

“A _favor._ ”

“Yes! You do know what those are, don’t you? Little things you do for your friends and associates, often times with zero expectation of receiving anything in turn?”

“I believe we have varying definitions of the word, but you may continue.”

“Excellent.” Maxwell grins and lets go of her arm. “I need you to make a list of the things you are thankful for.”

Cassandra blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“You heard me! It’s really not much trouble, I should think. Just a little thing, everyone’s doing it—”

“Oh _are_ they?”

“Yes! It was Varric’s idea. Marcher to the core, that one. I’m not even as dedicated to all this as he is, though he was certainly prepared to let the day pass without incident. I think he’s been away from home too long, we _must_ get that dwarf back to where he belongs. Anyway, anyway, I asked Varric to contribute and he said he’d write a little diddy about all this and _then_ I said we should all write something and _he_ said it should be simple. Like a list. Of things we’re thankful for.” Maxwell swallows. “You…don’t look pleased.”

Cassandra closes her eyes. “I do not feel it is necessary for me to…to put my _appreciations_ out so that everyone might see them. It is not important. Everyone here knows that I am grateful for them—”

“It’ll only be us. Varric’s having Josephine plan something for the Free Marcher soldiers, but Cullen says there aren’t too many. They’ll have their own thing, he’ll tell them a story, and then the rest of us—”

“Will be forced to participate in something that is of no consequence to our well-being or cultures.”

Maxwell frowns. “Yes? I think?” He sighs. “It’s supposed to be _fun_ , Cassandra. Food and wine and friends. What is there not to love about that? And how often do we get to sit at one place and dine together? You won’t have to sit next to Varric—”

“I have no problems with Varric,” she says quickly, feeling her cheeks flush. “Sitting next to him would cause me no upset.”

“So…you’d _like_ to sit next to him.”

“ _Ugh._ Maker take you, Inquisitor.” She turns and begins walking away from him, shaking her head.

“Well, I’ll take all that as a _yes_ , you know. I expect you to have a list by dinner, Cassandra! You know what time that is, I won’t have someone sent for you, that’ll only make it worse!” She knows he is waving at her, probably trembling with excitement over something as frivolous as dining together.

It is endearing, she supposes. It is sweet. It is, in its own way, rather romantic.

Cassandra doesn’t have the energy to return to her little practice spot. She goes to the forge instead, and climbs the stairs to her meager space, settling at her desk with ink and parchment.

“To write what I am thankful for,” she mutters.

That _would_ be Varric’ contribution, she decides. To torture her without knowing, as he has done as long as she’s known him. Grumbling, Cassandra puts quill to paper and begins to consider her options.

 _-our soldiers, because they work to protect the inquisition_  
_-the advisors, for doing so much good work for us_  
_-the inquisitor, for not having died yet_  
_-the weather, for being a_ _greeable_

She looks at the list. That is surely enough, isn’t it? She should not be _forced_ to write these sorts of things for the enjoyment of others.

 _But_ , a small part of her says, _when was the last time you said thank you for anything?_

“I do not have to,” she says aloud, and abandons the task.

 

* * *

 

Varric realizes by dinner that he hasn’t eaten all day. His hangover is still somewhere between _devastating_ and _diabolical_ , but he’s surviving all the same. He sets up camp with the soldiers from the Marches around four and eats some potatoes and trade stories about home. The Inquisitor comes by and they all reminisce about _real_ Day of Gratitude feasts.

“Mother made stuffed hens every year,” one of the boys says. “Missed it this year.” Everyone nods and drinks solemnly for a moment. By the time Varric and the Inquisitor leave, the men and women are singing drinking songs and laying one each other’s shoulders.

“Good for morale,” Maxwell says. “Come along, then. We’ve got our own dinner to get to.”

“Josephine whipped that up pretty quick.”

“She’s brilliant, I’m telling you.”

“Won’t argue against that.” Varric follows him into the war room, which has been, for the evening, turned into a warmly lit, private dining room. The maps and markers are pushed to the side, and Josephine is still in the process of lighting candles as they enter.

“Ah, good! You’ve arrived. I must change, and then—”

“Change, what?” Maxwell guides her by her elbow to a seat and smiles. “My dear ambassador, you look as radiant as ever.”

“I have worn this all day.”

“I assure you, you will still smell fresher than our Iron Bull.”

“I heard that, boss,” the Qunari says.

“He has a point.” Dorian and Sera file in after him. “When _did_ you wash those last?”

“Why, ‘Vint? You interested in taking them off? Doing the honors?” Bull leans forward and grins, sending the Inquisitor into a fit of laughter as he pushes Josephine’s chair in a bit too far, pinning her to the table. He pulls back.

“Oh, _please_ don’t give me that mental image. It’s too much. I’m too hungry, I’ve practically starved myself today waiting for this.”

Varric smiles as the others come in. He’s sitting across from Cassandra, but she absolutely refuses to look at him. It’s a far cry from their pleasant chat earlier in the day, but he doesn’t think much on it as everyone settles and begins to eat. It’s not the largest Day of Gratitude feast Varric’s been to – Bartrand hosted one after their mother passed nearly every year. It was stuffy and practiced and _long_ , but the food was good and in his younger years, he could usually talk Bianca into leaving early to have drink in Lowtown.

Here, he isn’t interested in getting away. He wants _this_ moment to go on forever, to have them all suspended in time, pretending that Corypheus is a long ways off. Varric smiles and takes a long drink of his wine.

“Attention! Attention, everyone.” Maxwell stands, knocking his spoon against his glass and grinning. “I am extremely happy to have forced my Marcher traditions on you all. Varric, I think, is also glad. He’s more Marcher than I am, most days. It’s grand, I think, that despite war and archdemons and dragons, we can sit here and eat together, and be grateful for one another. I know that I am grateful for each and every one of you. I am particularly grateful for this wonderful mage here with his clever hands and whatnot—” He squeezes Dorian’s shoulder. “And I am sure that you have each found someone to be particularly thankful for, since we’ve started all this.

“I do love each and every one of you, and I promise that it’s only a little bit of the wine talking, really.” He raises his glass. “I’ll toast us all, and then I really think we should have Cassandra say something.”

“ _What?_ ”

“To the Inquisition!”

“ _To the Inquisition!_ ”

Maxwell takes a drink and sits again. “Cassandra. I believe I asked you to do something.”

“You…you asked _everyone_ to do something.”

“Ah, no? I lied, I’m sorry. I only asked you.”

She fumes, and Varric can see the flush crawling up her neck. But this, like so many things, is an order. It is something she has been told to do, and she will do it, he knows it. Varric feels her gaze hot on his, like it’s his fault the Inquisitor took his idea and did what he wanted with it.

She stands, drinks all of her wine, and pulls a bit of paper from her pocket.

“I do not like holidays,” she says.

“That’s alright.”

“Nor do I care much for you.”

Maxwell shrugs. “A small price to pay.”

Cassandra sighs, unfolding the paper and looking down at it. “I am thankful for our soldiers, because they work so hard to protect us. I am thankful for our advisors, who have been quite successful. I am thankful for the Inquisitor, who has not died yet.” She looks at him then. To his credit, he doesn’t falter. “And I am thankful for the weather, because it has been quite agreeable.” She folds the paper again and sits back down.

The room is quiet for a moment, before the Inquisitor begins to clap.

“ _Wonderful_ , Cassandra. Truly, I do appreciate it. A rather honest list, in my opinion. My sisters always said silly things like, _flowers, because they smell like true love in the summer time_. Or _I am thankful for Gregory Goggens, for being so handsome._ ”

“Did any of your sisters marry Gregory Goggens?” Dorian asks.

“No, but my eldest sister did marry his older brother, Charles.”

“How quaint.”

Varric looks across the table, where Cassandra is staring straight at him, her face contorted into something completely mismatched and off-kilter.

And then Cullen says, “I’m quite thankful for whoever patched the hole in my roof. Never did get around to saying thanks.” He shrugs and takes another bite from his plate. Cassandra frowns, looking down the table at him.

“I am very thankful that my scouts returned unharmed this week,” Leliana says. The admission seems to relieve her, and Varric knows that, more often than not, her scouts return in fewer numbers, each nursing a new wound.

“I received word from my mother,” Josephine says. “Business is well again. I am quite thankful for that.” She smiles, and after that it all seems to fall like towers, with one gratitude after another, each private and personal, each something no one would have the chance to say aloud. Varric nods through each, watching Cassandra’s face through it all. It changes, from something that could not bear the sight of him, to the face of a woman feeling something this side of pure joy.

Varric grips his glass tighter when it comes to him, and he says, “I’m grateful for the Seeker,” without much thought.

The Inquisitor’s smile is _wide._

“I’m uh, I’m grateful that she kept my head above water last night. I wasn’t really thinking straight.”

“We are all sorry for your loss,” Josephine says quietly.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

“I am thankful that you can tolerate my company long enough for me to help you,” Cassandra says quietly.

Varric feels something growing in chest, rapidly becoming a lump in his throat.

He nods. “You’re not so bad, Seeker.”

She sighs. “Yes, you are not so bad yourself, Varric.”

 

* * *

 

It takes time for the dinner to conclude itself, but when it finally does, Cassandra finds herself wandering the grounds with Varric by her side. They walk in silence, occasionally glancing at one another and sharing quick smiles before continuing. Eventually, he stops in front of the forge.

“Do you really sleep on the floor, Seeker?”

“You say that like I am some kind of squatter. I have been sleeping on the ground most of my adult life.”

“I’m gonna get you a bed.”

“ _Varric!_ That would hardly be appropriate.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, I think you’re starting to understand my style.”

She flushes, leaning against the wall of the building. “You are ridiculous.”

“What I am is impressed. You opened everyone up.”

Cassandra shakes her head. She shouldn’t, couldn’t, and _won’t_ take the credit for anything that transpired after she read her meager list.

Still, though – it feels oddly satisfying to have Varric’s approval.

“You know, he didn’t tell me he was going to do that.”

“I believe you,” she says, and is a bit surprised to find she’s telling the truth. “I…believe you.”

“A shocking revelation?”

“A bit, yes.”

“Oh, ye of little faith.”

“You must admit there is a precedent.”

Varric nods. “I do.”

“Then you will do better in the future to insure I do not fall back on old judgments?”

“You could just _ask_ me not to lie to you.”

Cassandra bites her lip. “Do not lie to me again. Please,” she adds quickly.

“I won’t.”

“Even right now?”

He smiles. “Even right now.”

Cassandra breathes, looking down at her hands, just before she slides them into his. “Do you care for me?”

“Yes,” he says, no hesitation.

“Do you… _enjoy_ my company?”

“Most days.”

“Do you think that…I mean to say…to _ask_ —”

“Seeker.”

“Oh, _alright._ ” She looks right at him. “Would you like to kiss me? I have thought about it before, I will admit, and I do not—”

With clever hands he brings her down, and presses his lips to hers. It is chaste, considering, but it is also improper, considering their working relationship up until now.

Cassandra pulls back reluctantly and nods.

“Alright,” she says.

“Alright?”

“Well, it was not _alright._ It was quite…nice. But still.”

“Still.”

“Yes.”

Varric smiles, taking her hands and kissing her knuckles. “I do care for you, Seeker. I’d like to give this thing a shot.”

“I can agree to this.”

“Maker, Seeker, it’s not a treaty we’re signing. We’re just…agreeing to spoon each other.”

“I am not good at that.”

“I am,” he says. “You’ll like the way I do it.”

Cassandra sighs. “I look forward to it, then. But I should sleep.”

“You should.”

“Goodnight, Varric.”

“Goodnight, Cassandra.”

She blinks at the sound of her name, feeling her smile stretching wide.

“You like that?”

“Say it again.”

“Goodnight, Cassandra.”

She bends down to kiss him again.

“Goodnight, Cassandra,” he repeats, drawing out the vowels.

Another kiss.

“ _Shit_ , goodnight, Cassandra.”

She nips his ear and pulls back. “Sleep well, Varric.”

“Damn. Yeah…yeah you, too.”

“Tomorrow,” she promises.

“Longest night of my life,” Varric admits.

“But worth it,” she says, and turns to go inside.

He is still standing there when she goes to the window, and he looks up, smiling at her before raising one hand in goodbye.

 _Well_ , she thinks. _Not really goodbye._

_Just goodnight._

Goodnight. Sweet dreams. Rest well.

It is fall, and the leaves are changing.


End file.
